The Other One
by Tara Laurel
Summary: "You know what happened to the other one."
1. Not Dead

**TITLE: The Other One **

**CHAPTER/TITLE:** Chapter One/ Not Dead

**RATING:** T (violence/language)

**A/N: **I started writing this one quite a long time ago, way before series 3 aired. So, Sherlock is back, but you can disregard the rest of the series. Sorry. I don't feel like rewriting. This story is set in Sherlock's world in present time. This is an AU Merlin who is the third Holmes brother and doesn't have magic. Sorry, no Camelot or dragons! Plenty of angst, family bonding, hurt, whump, bamf, and even a guest appearance by a favorite villain.

_Review please?_

**Chapter One: Prologue (Not Dead)**

Being a doctor, and then a soldier, John Watson had a very, pragmatic, view of death. It wasn't cold or distant, but neither did he dwell on denial or bargaining when someone close to him passed on. He knew the facts. He had studied them late into the early morning hours until they were fused into his brain cells during medical schools. And he had seen them played out both at Bart's, and in Afghanistan.

To John Watson, dead was dead.

There was no coming back. No second chance. No denying. No bargaining. He didn't curse God when his mother had been stolen from him in that car accident. He hadn't attempted to make a deal with any deity when his father fell victim to a heart attack. There was, of course, anger. He latched onto that stage of grief greedily. But those other two, he passed right over.

Dead was dead.

That was, of course, until John Watson stood over Sherlock Holmes' grave, and begged. Of course, even then, he wasn't seeking out a higher power. He wasn't just bargaining, John Watson, was begging. Something he had done only once before in his life, when a bullet had burrowed its way into his shoulder and fever so fierce it had him seeing his dead parents consumed him.

_Please, God, let me live. _

He hadn't been dead yet. There was still time. Not much. But some. Until the final curtain call, John was allowed to beg.

That was the rule. He had pleaded and cried over his mother's hospital bed, but the moment that line had dropped flat, the moment he _felt _his mother leave him, he had stopped.

As long as there was time left, no matter what, John would fight, claw, implore, bargain, whatever he had to do to save himself or the life of someone else. But once death won, he relinquished the battle. It was what kept him going as a doctor, and what kept him sane as a soldier. He could not dare to dwell on the young men and women after they had been shot or blown to bits. He could not plead for an already passed on patient, when there was another one, still alive, waiting for his healing hands.

Yes, for John Watson dead was dead.

And yet -

_Please, Sherlock._

_One more miracle, for me. _

_Don't be, dead. _

_Stop this. _

The words still rang in his ears some nights when he was on the precipice of sleep, the nightmares slowly fogging in around him, like the blurred edge of his vision after one too many drinks.

Even now, with the dreams gone and the detective back, very much _alive_, John could still hear his small speech over an empty grave.

Two weeks.

Thirteen days, seven hours, and twenty nine minutes.

That was how long Sherlock Homes had been back from the dead.

That was how long before it all happened that John had redefined his practical approach to the subject.

How long Sherlock had before he too, would understand.

Short version. Sometimes dead, was definitely, well, not dead.


	2. What's In a Face

**TITLE: The Other One **

**CHAPTER/TITLE:** Chapter Two/ What's In a Face

**RATING:** T (violence/language)

**A/N: **This story is heavily from John's viewpoint as I wanted a sort of unbiased mediator between the brothers to share the story. Also, it gives it a bit closer feel to how the original stories were told from his perspective. Title is a play on the line "What's in a name?" from Romeo and Juliet.

_Review please?_

**Chapter Two: What's In a Face**

Sherlock and John were unofficially working a low profile case for Lestrade when everything in their world pitched sideways. Sherlock had only recently made his privately dramatic return to the land of the living and they weren't exactly keen on informing the media, and the world, of his grand re-entrance. With Moriarty's web cut down it was now safe, but evidence was just now coming to light that proved Moriarty himself was real and cleared the consulting detective's name. Just as they had done so so eagerly those years prior, the media jumped on the juicy news like vultures, seemingly not remembering, or not caring, that it was the blasted birds that had helped fuel the criminal mastermind's flames back then. The same reporters that had ridiculed the "fake genius" now honored him.

John was pretty positive he would have been pissed enough to punch a few of the "two faced bastards" - _his own words –_ had Sherlock not been sitting next to him watching the same news report, very much alive.

Still, his name continued to carry some dirt stains from being dragged so deep in the mud. Mycroft wished to wait out the media storm before creating another one. That way, he could control it this time. The vultures were already in the middle of a feeding frenzy. Throwing them the fact that the man they were putting up a pedestal postmortem was actually living and breathing in London, wasn't exactly a good plan. So, Sherlock had begrudgingly – _John was pretty sure the man had actually been kicking and screaming like a child –_ agreed to remain below the radar. Going out wasn't much of a problem, as the detective wasn't a stranger to costumes. Unless there was a case, though, Sherlock mostly stayed in, shuffling irritably around 221B and conducting fairly corrosive experiments to match his mood.

Sherlock and John didn't exactly have a picture perfect, running towards each other in a Hollywood film worthy embrace, reunion. There was fighting, both of the physical and verbal variety, there were tears – _which both of them would later deny. _And, eventually, there was forgiveness.

Things weren't entirely peachy on Baker Street, but anything, they both silently agreed, was better than the past two years apart.

Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson were given the news the day after John. Mrs. Hudson had broke one of her favorite tea cups throwing it at the imagined intruder. Lestrade had nearly broken Sherlock's windpipe in a neck grabbing hug.

Nearly two weeks later and Sherlock had finally convinced Greg to throw him a bone. Literally, a bone. And a proper crime and case right along with it. No one at the Yard was to discover the dead detective's assistance, though. No one in London, really, to be more precise.

Which was why, after dark, Sherlock and John were slinking through the shadowed streets like criminals themselves. Sherlock held no fear in revealing himself to his homeless network. They were a surprisingly loyal bunch. And, as Sherlock explained to John, even if they did tell anyone of import, no one would believe a street bum. That had earned Sherlock a very long overdue eye roll.

Say whatever insulting things he liked about the homeless of London, John knew the man secretly was quite fond of his raggedy crew. He was just as loyal to them as they were to him. He may have turned his nose up at their stench, made sure to wash his hands after contact, and degraded their lifestyle, but there was always something there when he spoke to one of them.

John could never envision Sherlock Holmes having children. And yet there was something almost, well, paternal wasn't the right word. He did watch out for them though. Talked to them. Even giving them the time of day was more than he granted most. And there was that unique warmness to his gaze whenever he was with them, even when he was glaring at them for their incompetence. John never asked about it and Sherlock never shared.

"Thank you, Levi," Sherlock finished with one of the boys and made to turn away, to send another member off on another task for the case.

"Hey," Levi called out. "You wanna stay around for a bit? We were playin' cards. You could join in."

"I believe I have more pressing matters to attend to then a game of _cards_," Sherlock sneered, but still stopped.

"Oi, we bust our bums to help you help you solve all them cases," a man with raggedy ginger stained hair piped up.

"_'Those_ cases," Sherlock corrected on reflex before replying, without missing a beat. "And you are paid for your services."

"Money don't buy company, mate," a scruffy teenager that reminded the detective more of a canine than a human reminded him.

"Now that ain't true," the man with the carrot colored hair puffed his small chest with laughter as he slapped the boy on the back.

"Come on, Sherlock," the canine chuckled. "Only company we get 'round here is each other 'n coppers." He paused and glanced around. "Just a couple 'a games."

"What's the point?" Sherlock almost couldn't help the shadow of a small smile that was playing at the corners of his upturned lips. "You know I will always beat all of you."

"Still is fun," Levi shrugged, "and you might just get beaten one 'a these times, ya never know."

"I always know," Sherlock smirked.

"That so?" The redhead grinned. "I'd wager our new guy could beat you. He's beatin' all 'a us."

"That isn't saying much," Sherlock teased.

"Really," Levi urged. "You should meet 'em. He's real good. Maybe better than you."

"Doubtful." Sherlock sniffed and turned in the direction Levi was shrugging his thumb.

Sherlock peered across the alley and found himself staring down at a head of unruly raven hair. The younger man was laughing with a sort of magical mirth as he watched him. His clothes were torn and his skin was dirty and his face was even a bit sickly looking, and yet, he appeared, happy. John was always amazed by those few souls that could endure such hardship and still carry such, well, innocence wasn't the proper word. Anyone living on London's streets had outgrown innocence long ago. Perhaps, youthful joy, was a more accurate description. John wanted to smile himself, until he turned and saw Sherlock.

Sherlock, who was definitely, not smiling.

Sherlock, who was not moving.

The detective had practically turned to stone. Another person might have staggered to a stop. Not Sherlock. His back stretched stiffly straight, his shoulders rolled high and back. He looked as though he had just been submerged in salt water, ran out of air, and taken in a painful swallow.

John hadn't heard the gasp, but he could plainly see that Sherlock had stopped breathing.

"Sherlock?"

Even though he had lost two years, Sherlock knew just about every homeless person in London by now and he was certainly not one to forget a face.

Especially not this face.


	3. Deductions and Disguises

**TITLE: The Other One **

**CHAPTER/TITLE:** Chapter Three/ Deductions and Disguises

**RATING:** T (violence/language)

**A/N: **I know Sherlock's acting odd and a bit OOC, but just hang in there. *waves hands mysteriously* All will be revealed...

_Review please?_

**Chapter Three: Deductions and Disguises**

Sherlock Holmes passed by hundreds of people, day after day, studying them and sniffing out their life story with hardly more than a casual glance - and that was if he even bothered with them at all. The majority of the faces and lives he came across barely scratched the surface of his mind before promptly being deleted forever. Many of them didn't even make it that far inside his head before he cataloged them as "unimportant" or "boring" and moved on.

He knew every face in his homeless network, even if he dumped their life file into his trash bin. He needed to know their faces, even their names. After all, they often times helped him with cases and anything pertaining to his work was deemed worthy enough to be permanently stored.

Yet as he examined this new face, something felt different.

It took him less than two seconds to know that the boy was barely cresting adulthood. He had youthful features and an odd boyish glow about his countenance. And those eyes. Those eyes that spoke of innocence and maturity, of tragedies witnessed and a long life tucked into few years. A spark that had never once been trampled out. So, Sherlock surmised, young in years and heart, but old in life. He had seen such a thing on numerous occasions in his line of work.

He was homeless and spent his days outdoors, and yet the pallor of his skin suggested that this one stuck to the shadows.

His tattered clothes and weathered shoes told tales of his street life. He moved quite often, never staying in one place for any longer than he needed to. He wasn't dressed for a life of crime and nothing about his wardrobe came even close to singing songs of "street thug". His pants were baggy and loose from his rail of a frame, not for style.

The only items in his possession were a couple decks of cards and a few coins that were kept loosely in his pockets. He could faintly hear them jingling as his whole body moved with his laugh. There was one deck, though, that remained concealed, stashed securely in the inside breast pocket of his jacket. The only possession that he valued then.

The young man probably didn't even realize that when he crossed his arms, they came up just a bit higher than his middle, as if to protect the hidden possession.

In the few words and laughter that he could hear, Sherlock had grown frustrated. His relaxed English accent held traces of that of a Northern Irishman. The English accent was dominant, but the way the Irish pronunciations clung in the background of his words suggested he spent most of his early childhood and life in Northern Ireland. It had been quite a few years now that he had been traveling about England.

The deductions happened without conscious effort from Sherlock. He didn't need them.

Without a word to any of his homeless network, Sherlock almost mechanically spun and then hurried away. He was gone and around a corner before the stranger looked up from the middle of the grand and hilarious story he had been telling.

John barely had time to nod his thanks toward Levi before rushing off after his mad friend. When the blogger found his detective, the man was leaning with his back against a wall, three streets down.

"Sherlock?" John asked carefully for the second time in minutes.

"You saw him," Sherlock suddenly seized John's shoulders. "You saw him!"

"Yeah! 'Course I bloody saw him! Why?" John was struggling now but Sherlock didn't seem to notice.

"Tell me, John." Sherlock commanded in a cracking voice. "Tell me what he looked like. Everything you remember about him."

John studied his friend for a moment. He was reminded quite vividly of a Sherlock in a very similar state sitting in front of a fireplace with shaking hands after seeing the Hound.

"Alright, alright. Just, calm down, Sherlock." John sighed. "A kid. Well, young man, I guess. Uh, brown hair, dark brown. Like yours, but a bit closer to black I think. English accent, but, there was something different. Irish, a bit, maybe. Skinny -"

Sherlock released John just as quickly as he had grabbed him.

"Impossible," he mumbled to the ground.

"What's impossible, Sherlock?"

"-however improbable," Sherlock muttered to himself, "must be – _the truth_!"

At those final two words, Sherlock shot off back in the direction they had come from. It was only upon reaching the mouth of the alley that the detective abruptly stopped and swore.

"John, give me your jumper." Sherlock whirled on the man who had just caught up to him.

"What?" John eyed his friend suspiciously.

"Just do it!" Sherlock implored impatiently. "I promise I will explain later. This is _important_, John, I promise. Life and death."

"Yeah," John grumbled, shrugging out of his jacket and then the knit fabric. "To you, life and death can be picking up dry cleaning."

Sherlock didn't answer as he tossed his Belstaff at his blogger and yanked the jumper over his head. Without asking this time, Sherlock grabbed John's jacket and swung it over his arms. Digging in his coat pockets, the coat John was still holding, Sherlock pulled out a hat that had been crocheted for the detective years ago by Mrs. Hudson as a Christmas present. He loathed the striped monstrosity and the irritation was obvious even now as he stretched it over his skull, tucking loose locks up into the material. And yet he always carried it with him. Hats were always the easiest disguises. Especially the hideous ones.

"Your shoes, John," Sherlock began nudging out of his own.

"We're not even the same size," John argued as he toed his off. "You better have a bloody brilliant excuse for all this nonsense later."

Sherlock didn't answer as he pulled a pair of glasses out of his trouser pockets and slipped them on. He fetched a nearby clump of dirt and painted on a rather impressive five 'o clock shadow. Even as John shook his head in disbelief and annoyance, he couldn't help but give Sherlock credit. The man really did look hardly like himself anymore.

"Go, find Levi. Tell him that I want to see this new card player he spoke of," Sherlock instructed. "But, you know, don't tell him to tell him it was me."

"Right," John shook his head and rolled his eyes in perfect, practiced, unison.

"And John," Sherlock hissed a whisper. "Do try to be discreet."

John didn't reply as he stalked off back down the alley and found the man in question. It was less than a minute later that he returned, the dark haired stranger on his heels. John nearly snorted as he saw Sherlock. The detective had slumped his shoulders forward and was leaning casually against the wall. It was a stark contrast from the man's usual poised presence.

"You must be the bloke who says no one can beat him at cards," the black haired boy spoke without introduction, though friendly.

"And you must be new," Sherlock lifted his gaze, his voice easily coming out with an almost exaggerated Cockney bounce to it.

"Not new to the streets, if that's what you mean," the boy nodded, although something in his voice told Sherlock that this stranger knew exactly what he meant. "New to London, though."

"Yet you seem to have already made some, _friends_," Sherlock noted, glancing toward the alley and the small crowd. "Where are you from?"

"Depends on when you ask," the stranger smiled. "Dunno really. Been on the streets for as long as I know. First place I ever remember, fact it's the first memory I have, is waking up in Armagh in an orphanage. I know I'd been having some sort of dream, or nightmare, because I was screaming. I've never been able to remember what it was about. Ran away a few years later."

"Fascinating," Sherlock's eyes rolled over the stranger as the word hung apathetically on his tongue.

"You gonna play, or what?" The redhead interrupted, exiting the alley and nodding knowingly at the detective.

"I fail to understand why you all are so insistent on me joining in on your little games, Finch" Sherlock sighed, still holding his feigned accent and body language. "You never win."

"Never say never, mate," Finch hunched his shoulders in a shrug while his hands slid into his pockets. "Think we finally found someone who can beat you."

"Doubtful," Sherlock sniffed.

Before anyone could argue, the black haired boy reached into his pocket, pulling out one of the decks of cards Sherlock had noticed earlier. They were in his hand in a movement so quick even Sherlock had to admit he was impressed. What came next though, prompted the detective to quirk an interested eyebrow. The boy seemed to almost carelessly shuffle the cards in only one hand. It wasn't, in and of itself, an amazing feat. Yet the speed of his fingers was something even Sherlock Holmes was forced to marvel at, even if he didn't do so openly. His face remained blank as he watched the young man flip the deck onto the back of his hand and and then seamlessly back into his palm. He was cutting the deck and then fanning it out with an almost bored expression coloring his features, though there was a glimmer of a smile on his lips and in his eyes. He brought his other hand forward and the deck jumped back and forth between the two. Sometimes individual cards seemed to be climbing up on top of each other, while other times they leapt from their place in their owner's hands, only to land in the opposite awaiting palm. Next, the stranger performed what Sherlock vaguely remembered to be something called the card spring. They floated back and forth, one by one, in rapid succession. With one last flourish of the wrist, the cards abandoned their owner and sprung towards Sherlock. The detective put out his hand just in time for the deck to land in his own palm.

"You're good," Sherlock nodded.

"Thank you," the boy replied earnestly, a smile that was sort of halfway between smug and honored dancing across his face.

He showed his teeth when he grinned, his eyebrows lifting and that youthful glow tinting his irises once more.

"But not that good," Sherlock quickly clipped and was mildly surprised and amused when the boy's smile failed to fall. "You asked me to play cards, Finch, not watch magic tricks."

The young man's lips faltered curiously.

"How did you know -"

"No one who carries three decks of cards and shuffles like _that _merely plays poker," the detective deduced without missing a beat. "You've got nothing on you to bet. No cigarettes. No food. No extra clothing. No money, save for the few coins in your pocket. You're no gambler. _You're_ a street performer."

"Can play a decent game of cards too," the boy smirked, "but, yeah, you're right."

"Of course I am," Sherlock turned his nose up as he spoke.

And it was in that one sentence, that Sherlock broke his disguise.

That Sherlock changed everything.


	4. A Magic Trick

**TITLE: The Other One **

**CHAPTER/TITLE:** Chapter Four/ A Magic Trick

**RATING:** T (violence/language)

**A/N: **Look at this quick updates. I must really love you guys.

_Review please?_

**Chapter Four: A Magic Trick**

He had actually begun to enjoy his banter with the boy and had accidentally and quite carelessly slipped out of his put on accent. Something in the younger man's face twitched and Sherlock's features fell to something akin to horror.

As if in a mirror reactions to Sherlock's earlier, the stranger suddenly stood stonily. His eyes had grown almost cartoonishly wide and John might have laughed had he not been so terrified. He recognized that look, that reaction. He had worn the same one not two weeks ago. Two weeks ago when his supposedly dead flatmate had showed up in the middle of their sitting room.

At least, so far, it didn't seem as though either man was going to throw a punch like he had.

Instead, like a deer paralyzed in the headlights, the stranger was still, and then, just as suddenly, wasn't. The boy turned on a single spinning heel and sprinted down the alleyway in the opposite direction.

Sherlock tore after him like a flaring flash of light, bursting to life after a moment of darkness. John belatedly followed, hauling himself after Sherlock and the stranger. They pushed past pedestrians and slammed on the hoods of cars. The boy's long legs and swift speed vaguely reminded John of the other lanky individual involved in the chase. Yet, there were differences. Whereas the stranger would apologize in passing as he knocked into someone, Sherlock simply shouted rude remarks, as though he wasn't the madman barreling down the block.

It was only when they reached a corner, did Sherlock skid to a stop and then propel himself down the streets in a different direction. John had followed behind Sherlock's coattails while chasing criminals enough not to question the action. He was planning on cutting the younger man off through some various short cut only Sherlock Holmes could think of on the fly.

Only, ten minutes later, when John and Sherlock practically threw themselves from a fire escape and into the alley the boy was apparently expected to be in, he wasn't.

Sherlock cursed and John opened his mouth to question the man before the detective already had taken off again.

"Maybe he went another way," John suggested through greedy breaths as he bent only slightly forward.

"No," Sherlock hissed. "We have to go back."

Sherlock spun around, John just barely catching the way the man was blinking oddly heavily, and not from exhaustion. It was as though the genius was trying to blink something from his mind.

"Back, Sherlock, where?"

"Back where we first saw him." Sherlock snapped.

"Who?" John pushed. "Who is he?"

Sherlock didn't answer. He continued to turn his head, eyes hungrily devouring, searching, everything around them. He looked almost – lost.

"Sherlock -"

"You saw him," Sherlock suddenly seized John's shoulders again. "You saw him!"

"Yeah! We've been over this before. Remember?"

"Tell me, John," Sherlock continued, paying his friend's protests no mind. "Tell me what he looked like, exactly."

"You saw him too," John argued.

"No," Sherlock shouted. "I have to know what _you _saw."

"What the _hell _is going on, Sherlock? Who is this kid?"

"I promise, John. I will answer all your questions if you just _tell _me."

"Fine, yeah. Like I said before, young bloke. Maybe twenties. I think his eyes were blue, maybe. I wasn't exactly paying attention close attention. Tall -"

"_Just a magic trick_."

At those final words, Sherlock shot off once more.

* * *

><p>Merlin was reeling. No, Merlin was <em>retching. <em>His feet skidded to a stop behind a skip and he bent over, spilling the small contents of his stomach on the pavement. The tearing apart of his heart and head, added with the sudden sprint, had him spewing until there was nothing left but dry heaves. Shakily, Merlin attempted to straighten. He spared a glance behind him, expecting to see his pursuers. A different pair of men crossed the mouth of the alley. Their gazes met and Merlin found himself wanting to vomit once more. This time out of terror.

"Oi! We've been lookin' for you!" The broad shouldered and big bellied man stomped forward. "You little bastard, you bloody cheated yesterday!"

Meriln swiftly rose his hands submissively.

"I do not cheat," the magician replied earnestly.

"I never lose!" The beast of a man bellowed.

"Statistically speaking, you have to lose some time, unless, _you _cheat."

"What're you tryin' to say?" The second rat faced robust man spoke for his flabbergasted friend.

"I was simply stating a fact, my friend," Merlin answered without sarcasm or malice in his voice.

"A fact?" The man parroted loudly. "The fact is _you _cheated and I'm takin' mi money back!"

The towering bear of a man advanced on Merlin before the younger and smaller man could finish opening his mouth to argue. His slack jaw was met by a curled and crusty fist. Merlin was still stumbling backwards when a second punch landed itself centered in the boy's stomach. Merlin doubled over as air was forcibly expelled from his lungs. A second pair of hands were on his arms now. He trashed and kicked against the capture behind him in vain. He was held firm, utterly open and defenseless as blow after blow made eager contact with his torso and face. He vaguely felt something split open against his skull and it took him a few more hits to realize it was his skin that had tore. The sticky substance was seeping into his eyes when his lip too was soon split and Merlin unwillingly drank in and coughed out his own blood. Hours later - no that wasn't right - maybe minutes? - Merlin's nose made a crunching noise that had the boy nearly heaving again if there had been anything left in him. He could feel the warm liquid draining from his nostrils, soaking his cracked lip. He was only distantly aware of the hands leaving his arms. It was only when his legs went limp underneath him did he realize he was about to kiss the pavement. He struggled feebly to steady himself but was instead caught by the hard ground. Every new injury pulsed and screamed as his body crashed against cement. He cracked open his eyes and momentarily forgot how he had gotten on the ground. A thick black fog crept over his muddled mind as his eyelids fluttered.

He was already unconscious before his pockets had been picked clean.


	5. Just a Body

**TITLE: The Other One **

**CHAPTER/TITLE:** Chapter Five/ Just a Body

**RATING:** T (violence/language)

**A/N: **The suspense! The cliches! Dun dun dun

_Review please?_

**Chapter Five: Just a Body**

Sherlock and John doubled back to the building where the other haggard homeless network members were still gathered. The group was cackling and sharing stories, entirely unaware or uncaring of the mad chase that had just occurred. Like a trained bloodhound, Sherlock took up the boy's trail. He hurriedly followed the same path that the trio had initially taken and then detoured where Sherlock and John had first split off.

Sherlock remained at a clipped walking pace, but his strides were so stretched and swift, John practically had to jog to keep up with him.

"John, I understand you have questions," the detective spoke in an almost staccato fashion. "You _must _trust me. This is very important. Whatever happens, you must do what I tell you. Do not," Sherlock interrupted his friend. "ask. Not now. As I said, I will explain. If something – happens – call Mycroft. The bastard probably already knows -"

The detective suddenly stopped short both his speech and feet.

"Knows what?" John pressed against the sudden silence.

John had grown accustom to his flatmate cutting himself off in the middle of a sentence or thought and stealing away to his mind. Sometimes it was due to Sherlock's rapid thought pattern. On other occasions he would come to some significant realization or conclusion and gasp quite audibly. And then there were those instances when he simply grew bored of speaking altogether.

The time, though, was different.

Sherlock stalked inside the alley that the two had been standing in front of. Kneeling, he swiped a single finger along the ground, glaring at the appendage as it came back stained scarlet.

"Fresh," Sherlock reported, standing and scanning the alleyway. "No body."

"Body?" John marched over to meet him. "Are you talking about the kid? You think someone killed him?"

John could have sworn he saw Sherlock's natural pallor lighten a few shades at the question. With almost hesitant steps, the detective walked over to the nearest skip, noting the unsavory mess of someone's stomach contents beside it. Taking a breath, Sherlock lifted the lid and peered inside.

Nothing.

Well, that was both a good and bad sign.

Closing his eyes, Sherlock let himself escape to his mind palace.

_New to London. Street performer. No enemies to be made in that line of work. Start over._

_New to London. Card player. Skilled. There._

_Plenty of people didn't fancy losing, especially to a young kid from out of town. _

_Street performers tend to travel in their own preformed packs or solo. So why was this one suddenly making nice with the local homeless bunch? Safety in numbers. Scared. Hiding. _

Sherlock nodded and mentally scrolled to the next page.

_Nearest places to hide a body._

The detective's mind jarred a bit at this. It was like when he had spoken the single word just before. _Body_. Was that all that this boy was to him now? After everything, all this time, was he going to get his hopes lifted like a common fool only to be left with nothing more than a _body_?

Sherlock shoved the thought away. He was about to close his eyes once more when he sniffed the air and smiled. People were so often predictable. As much as Sherlock loved a puzzle, in that moment he appreciated these imbecile's choice of the classics.

The detective tore out of the alley, barely noting John taking off after him. He was only a few streets away. Vaulting a railing and sprinting towards shore, Sherlock finally paused. The Thames was silent tonight but there was another sound carrying over the air. John panted as he caught up to the man and opened his mouth.

Sherlock held up a hand to silence his partner and John immediately understood the gesture. His ears perked as the blogger listened for whatever the detective's keen senses had obviously picked up. He only needed to wait a few seconds before he too heard it.

"-elp-"

The strangled and scratchy voice sounded near. That one syllable was enough for even John to make his own deductions. He had lived long enough on the battlefield and had tended to enough patients to know. This wasn't some drunkard or homeless beggar. It wasn't a ploy to draw them into the darkness. No, whoever was pleading was seriously injured.

Whoever it was, was dying.

The duo turned in the direction of the noise in unison, John fishing a small torch from his jacket pocket as they did so. The beam of light darted about the darkness until it finally landed on a lump of something along the water's edge.

Doctor's instincts taking over, John hurried to the bloodied form.

"Sherlock," John ordered and the detective instantly grabbed the torch from his friend's outstretched hand.

John was already kneeling as Sherlock cast the light over the body, illuminating the stranger's scarlet stained face.

"Sherlock," John repeated to draw the detective's attention as he took in the familiar features.

"Merlin," Sherlock spoke a name John had never heard uttered outside of stories and legends, an unusual crack to his voice.

The boy's raven hair was disheveled and plastered against his forehead. John was met with drying blood and a wince as he pushed the saturated and sticky bangs back to examine a jagged gash.

"Mm - pff -"

"Hey, can you hear me?" John peeled back the fluttering eyelids. "Sherlock, this is a pretty serious concussion." He prodded his patient's stomach and limbs. "I'm counting two bruised ribs. One broken. He's soaking, and shivering. They threw him in the river? It's freezing out here. Any longer in that water and he'd be dead. Sherlock, give me your scarf, now."

Sherlock obeyed, holding the torch in one hand as he tore of the fabric with the other. John grabbed the article of clothing and promptly pressed it against the still seeping head wound.

"Sherlock, call an ambulance."

"N - n - pl - no - amb - nn -"

His patient was weakly shaking his head as he tried in vain to speak.

"Sorry, mate. You need a hospital."

The boy started tiredly trashing as John draped Sherlock's coat, the one that he had still be carrying, over his drenched body.

"Plea - ple - nnn - plea -"

John paused as watched tears streak down the young man's already wet face.

"Can you move him?" Sherlock was suddenly beside John.

"What?"

"Is it safe? Can you move him?" Sherlock repeated irritably, though there was a trace of something more there.

"Yeah, I guess - hey, wait. Where are you going?" John looked up as his friend started off in the opposite direction.

"To hail a cab," Sherlock said simply. "We're bringing him to Baker Street."


	6. Scars

**TITLE: The Other One **

**CHAPTER/TITLE:** Chapter Six/ Scars

**RATING:** T (violence/language)

**A/N: **Can you tell I have my first day off in over a month? Updates galore!

_Review please?_

**Chapter Six: Scars**

"Is he alright?" The cab driver threw a concerned glance back at the boy in the mirror.

Sherlock rolled his eyes at the daft question, as the man dripping water and blood was most obviously far from alright.

"Let me turn up the heat," the cabbie offered quickly.

"No," John exclaimed hurried. "If he gets too warm too quickly, he can go into shock."

"Are you sure you don't want me to take you to a hospital instead?"

"I'm a doctor," John shook his head, vividly remembering his patient's panic at the mere thought of going there. "I can take care of him, thank you."

"If you're sure -"

"He is quite sure," Sherlock cut in impatiently. "Now, how about you focus your attention on driving instead of asking stupid questions. Oh, and _faster _would be preferred."

The driver appeared far more shocked than offended as he notably increased his speed and returned his focus to the road ahead. Within minutes, they were in front of 221B.

John struggled to shift the semi-conscious boy out of the vehicle and was surprised when Sherlock began to aid in his efforts. Tossing money at the cabbie, the detective supported Merlin's upper body while John pulled the young man's legs out the door and into a sitting position. Bending down, John readily lifted Merlin over his shoulders. Although the military maneuver came naturally, John noted that Merlin was far too easy to carry. There was hardly any weight to his lanky figure. That certainly wasn't helping with the sickness that was trying to steal him from the world.

Sherlock had the door unlocked and was holding it open by the time John got there. The army doctor carried his patient up the stairs and into the flat, the detective opening doors and clearing the way as he went. Sherlock gathered a stack of books that had been scattered on the couch into his arms as John laid the man down.

"Blankets," John ordered his friend and Sherlock was off without a word. "And towels!"

Without hesitation, the doctor began stripping the stranger of his soaking scraps of clothing. John was lifting off another layer over Merlin's head when Sherlock returned with a stack of blankets and towels – John's to be precise.

"Get me some clothes," John instructed. "_Yours_."

"Why mine?" Sherlock was almost pouting and John briefly imagined the grown man stomping his feet.

"Look at the state of him, Sherlock!" John shouted impatiently. "He needs clothes and he's just as much of a bean pole as you."

"I am not perfect healthy and fit. I am not _that _thin," Sherlock huffed as he stalked to his room.

"No," John whispered as he took away another layer of fabric to reveal rails of limbs, "you're not."

The doctor finally was down to Merlin's undergarments and John almost regretted not just cutting the seemingly unlimited layers away with scissors from the start. He neglected to hesitate before removing the boy's pants and hastily covering his patient's lower half. His clinical eyes scanned the bare body, cataloging every detail, every injury - new, and old.

Between the angry discoloration around his abdomen and John's assessment of the area with his hands, his earlier diagnosis of the boy's ribs was confirmed. His breast was a canvas of black and blue.

There was also an odd and old marking from a burn to the right of the bruising. Above his heart held signs of previous blunt trauma and torn skin. Both of these injuries were only a few years old at the most. There were scars scattered along the rest of his chest and stomach, these far older. These were the types of wounds that told stories. Ones akin to John's scarred shoulder.

John moved his eyes to take in the rest of the prone form.

New bruises were blossoming on his arms, where had had likely been held by one of his attackers if the suspicious finger shaped designs of the discolorations were anything to go by. His knuckles betrayed signs of his defiance and John commended the boy for fighting back.

Merlin's head was still slowly bleeding and the lacerations and bruises on his face made for a disturbing collage.

Sherlock was back again and John snapped into action. He seized the previously discarded towels and began drying Merlin's damp body.

Once John had Merlin dry, the doctor grabbed his blankets - with a silent swear directed at his flatmate - and started the slow process of restoring warmth to his patient. He purposefully avoided Merlin's limbs, trying to deter causing cold blood to travel back to the heart, lungs or brain. The boy's pulse and breathing were already cause for concern and Merlin could easily go into shock at this point. Not to mention the concussion would be bad enough without adding possible brain damage. The head wound was put on the back burner by the doctor for now though. His main focus had to be getting Merlin warm as the boy continued to unconsciously shiver. He could deal with his patient's other injuries once he was in the clear.

No sooner had the thought troubled his mind did the unthinkable happen.

Merlin ceased shivering.

It wasn't the hypothermia, no.

Merlin had stopped breathing.


	7. Scream

**TITLE: The Other One **

**CHAPTER/TITLE:** Chapter Seven/ Scream

**RATING:** T (violence/language)

**A/N: **

_Review please?_

**Chapter Seven: Scream**

"Damn it," John cursed himself for not forcing the kid to go to a hospital.

For the second time that night, John felt Merlin's neck for a pulse. This time, there was no violent drumming underneath his fingers.

This time, there was nothing.

"Help me get him on the floor," John ordered hastily, already grabbing Merlin's upper body.

"Damn it, Sherlock!" John hollered at his frozen friend. "He's dying! Help me!"

Sherlock sprung into action as if snapping awake from some open eyed slumber. He quickly helped hoist Merlin onto the hard ground. The detective thrust the coffee table back out of John's way as the doctor knelt beside his patient. Sherlock could only watch as his friend administered CPR and desperately tried to breathe life back into the boy's body. His eyes flickered from John and then to Merlin - and to Merlin's decorated skin.

"Come on, come on."

He could vaguely hear John muttering useless appeals and encouragement that the unconscious man would not hear. The detective promptly filtered the words out of his head and focused solely on the silence screaming from Merlin.

His own mind was shrieking and reeling, but Sherlock tuned that out too. There would be time for questions later. Any sentiment he felt prickling - okay, maybe pounding - away at his heart was also swept aside. Somehow he found that, this time, his emotions were not easy and idly cast away.

His eyes were now pinned to Merlin's face and chest, silently willing for a gasp, a cough, a rise and fall, something. Anything.

It had been a long time since Sherlock had experienced such fear. Of course, he would never admit to ever feeling any at all. Seeing John strapped to a bomb had certainly given him a taste of a terror and dread he had only once before known.

After minutes that felt like hours, Merlin's heart beat again and the boy breathed once more. There was no dramatic gulp of air or fit of coughs. Merlin didn't even wake. And yet, to Sherlock, it was as though fireworks had erupted inside the flat.

He watched as John did not miss a beat once Merlin was once more among the living. Even Sherlock's quick eyes couldn't catch all of John's movements. That could also have been due to the wet substance swelling in them. _Not tears. _

"My bag," John commanded, his voice urgent, yet quieter.

Sherlock paused for a fraction of a second before retrieving the doctor's medical supplies. He dropped the bag next to John's kneeling form and promptly exited the room. If his flatmate called after him, Sherlock didn't hear him. The detective marched into his bedroom, slamming the door behind him. Ripping his mobile from his pocket, he fired off a text, his fingers beating against the touchscreen violently.

"You lied."

The device had hardly began to vibrate by the time Sherlock had it to his ear.

"Do be more specific, dear brother," Mycroft's unamused voice was like a poison in Sherlock's very soul.

"I would be _very _careful of how to speak to me right now, _brother_." Sherlock spat slowly. "You know better than any of what I am capable of. The only reason I'm not having this conversation with you in person is because I just might kill you if I see you and I wouldn't want to upset Mummy with the loss of another son."

There was a pregnant pause and a palatable silence.

"Oh, stop being so dramatic. Are you going to tell me what this about?" Sherlock could hear his brother's eye roll in his words. "Or should I have my people check my cameras in your flat and report back to me?"

"Oh," Sherlock breathed the word dangeroulsy with a shake of his head, "I _beg _you." His voice was as flat and cold as ice - and just as sharp. "Look for yourself, Mycroft. Oh, and don't let me see you for the next, let's say, 72 hours, or I will not be responsible for my actions."

Sherlock slammed the phone on his bed, snarling his trembling fingers through his hair. Without intending to do so, Sherlock found himself sitting atop his bed, his fist burrowing into his pillow. He felt something burning and crawling up from the back of his throat. Not tears. Those were still stagnant pools being stubbornly cradled in his lids, locked there. No, this was something else entirely.

A scream.

Pure, raw, emotion clawed to break free in one splitting shriek.

Sherlock covered his mouth, trying to swallow the unfamiliar and unwanted sensation down. He debated screaming into his pillow as that is what people on those awful shows John watched sometimes did.

_No_.

He wouldn't let his emotions rule him like this.

He neglected to even admit their existence, and therefore would never allow them to have such a foothold.

How could he have been so blind? _Him_? He saw everything and failed to see something of this scale. His own -

Shelock surfaced from his thoughts as a scream tore through the flat.


	8. Meet the Family

**TITLE: The Other One **

**CHAPTER/TITLE:** Chapter Eight/Meet the Family

**RATING:** T (violence/language)

**A/N: **

_Review please?_

**Chapter Eight: Meet the Family**

The detective had to make sure it hadn't come from himself, his emotions breaking free, before bursting from his room.

Merlin was on the couch now, wrapped in a cocoon of blankets, his head and face littered with bandaging. His previously limp form was now thrashing and twitching like a madman's.

Where was John?

Sherlock hurled himself forward and dropped to Merlin's side. John was soon behind him, having practically bolted from a the kitchen, a warm compress in his clutches.

"Don't touch him," John warned warily.

"I know that," Sherlock spat. "I don't touch you when you're having a nightmare, why would I do so to him?"

John was struck speechless. Of course Sherlock knew of John's dreams. How could he not when the morning following one, John's throat would be hoarse from assumed screaming. The detective never mentioned the dreams to his flatmate and John wasn't about to share them voluntarily, but he still knew. He was Sherlock after all. Not only did he possess those astute observational skills, there was also the matter that the world's only consulting detective hardly ever slept. How many nights was Sherlock downstairs, conducting an experiment or playing his violin, only to be interrupted by the cries of a haunted man? John continually tried to ignore thinking on it. But Sherlock actually witnessing the dreams? John could only flush with wounded pride.

"Merlin," Sherlock soothed in a soft, yet firm, voice that John wasn't sure he had ever heard from the man. "Merlin. You are safe now. You are alright. John is here - _I _am here, Sherlock. It is Sherlock, Merlin, and I am here. You are alright. Listen to me. Listen. You. Are. Safe. You are at my flat. Wherever you think you are, you are not there. Whatever you think is happening to you, is not. It is all in your mind. Wake up, Merlin."

John almost couldn't believe the scene in front of him was real. His brain flashed back to his own nightmares, to a voice, repeating similar phrases. He would hear the familiar baritone amidst memories of Afghanistan, of the pool with Moriarty, of watching Sherlock fall - and of dreams - of Sherlock dying again, of Mrs. Hudson being held hostage and killed, of Lestrade turning up as a victim in one their cases, of Molly in the morgue, but this time on a slab, of Harry drinking herself to death. Through all of it, real nightmares or fictional dreams, he would hear these words and be drawn back to consciousness and clarity. It was always brief, his eyes slitting open and then sliding closed once more. Several times John swore he saw Sherlock at his bedside, but always dismissed the shadowed figure as his semi-conscious imagination.

Had it really been his friend all along?

No longer wounded pride, but something akin to sentiment sprang rosily across his cheeks.

Merlin was mumbling something now in a language John failed to recognize. The odd and ancient words surprised the doctor and he wondered worriedly if the boy had taken a fever.

But what shocked him even more - was when Sherlock responded in the same tongue.

Merlin's body calmed, the young man now barely stirring in slumber. He was just cresting wakefulness when Sherlock abruptly stood and stalked once more out of the room.

Still reeling from everything he had just witnessed, it took John a moment to push himself forward. He was at Merlin's side just as the boy cracked open his eyelids. The blue irises were glowing with confusion and John vaguely wondered if that was how he looked when Sherlock spoke to him in his sleep and then disappeared before his flatmate was fully awake.

Merlin glanced around at his new surroundings curiously, but John could tell that he wasn't merely gaining his bearings. Merlin was searching for something, or more specifically, someone.

"What happened?" Merlin asked groggily as he made to sit up.

John quickly assisted his patient in finding a more comfortable position before answering.

"What do you remember?" John prompted, sitting himself down on the coffee table as he pulled it back to its original location.

"I was playing cards with some guys," Merlin swallowed, his eyes searching as his memory did the same. "Pretty right awful card players, too." Merlin cracked a crease of a smile until he looked down at his body.

Suddenly, Merlin was frantic. He tried to push himself off the couch, but John leapt forward and held him down.

"Where are they? Did they take them?"

"Merlin," John ordered, his doctor and soldier voice melding together. "You need to calm down. You're sick. You could make yourself worse."

"I don't care," Merlin shook his head and fumbled with the blankets that entrapped him. "Where are my clothes?"

John wordlessly handed Merlin the pile of wet rags and the boy immediately tore through them.

"No, no, no," Merlin scrubbed his fingers through his hair, almost reminding John of Sherlock. "They took them."

"Yeah," John sighed sympathetically, "you were picked clean when we found you. I'm sorry. What is it they took?"

"Your cards."

John and Merlin both turned their heads in unison at Sherlock's sudden voice and looming presence in the threshold.

Merlin's eyes widened just as they had done when he had first saw Sherlock.

"No," Merlin whispered. "I thought – you – you were a dream. I was just playing with those guys."

"Actually, you were just running, from us." the detective continued, entering the room in a round a bout fashion." The answer to why, I am not certain but am determined to find. The card game you're referring to happened sometime earlier today or yesterday, by my deductions. The men you won against, they were angry. Found you tonight and stole your cards. But not just any cards,"

Sherlock strolled along the walls casually as he spoke, keeping himself and his gaze drawn away from the both of them.

"You carried three decks. Two for tricks and games. Anyone who knows you would think those were the only two you own. But there was a third, kept in your jacket breast pocket and in a hard case. All the other pockets on your clothing were worn through with holes. Not that one. It had been mended, more than a dozen times. Could be seen as obsessive, but for the other evidence. Considering the style of the coat and the amount of instances you had that pocket mended, I'd say you had the jacket since you ran away. It was the only thing you ever stole, well, _almost_, the only thing. It was far too big for you then, so why take it? Sentiment. Some emotional attachment -"

"Sherlock -" John warned to no avail.

"Same with the deck of cards. You had them as long as you had that jacket. This coat is in ruins, and not just from living on the streets seeing as you've been doing so and still managed to maintain those cards. It's been purposefully neglected, except the pocket. So, whatever sentimental value you attached to it initially was broken. You didn't ask for it when you woke. You asked for your clothes. First, that tells me you no longer care for the jacket or its previous owner whom you stole it from. Second, you didn't want John knowing what you were really looking for. That's why you keep the cards hidden. It's not just to protect them. They're secret. _Your _secret. A secret so big you'd do anything to protect it. Even refuse proper medical treatment. Even lie. So what? Lying isn't a big deal to most people, but to _you_? You could be pick pocketing and conning people broke with your talents. And yet you perform magic tricks? You've got far too good of a moral compass to lie without a very good reason for doing so."

"Sherlock, stop." John stood now.

"And then there's the bit when we found you," Sherlock plowed forward mercilessly, though still keeping his body and gaze distant while Merlin sank fearfully back into the couch. "You called out for help, but didn't want it from the hospital - or us. So, what are you hiding that you wouldn't want doctors or us, rather, _me_, to discover? Hm? Doctors and detectives ask questions. Questions you don't want to answer. Or maybe can't answer. _He _has been known to make threats when it suits him. But I doubt you would be scared of him anymore. So, you're choosing to hide something. Maybe it wasn't your choice at first, but it is now. Or, at least, you think it is. You don't know what to think. You're trying to hide and yet you came to London? Here? Why? Why now? You're obviously conflicted seeing as you came all this way and yet continued to lie."

"Sherlock, stop this," John stepped forward. "He's sick. Whatever this is, stop. For crying out loud, Sherlock, he just died!"

"Oh, don't be dramatic, John," Sherlock puffed and waved his hand. "He's done it before. Apparently it's something of a family tradition. Coming back from the dead."

"What the hell are you on about?" John pressed.

"Your deck of cards was missing something, wasn't it?" Sherlock trampled over the question.

Merlin barely nodded. His face was almost as white as it had been when they first found him on the shore, his eyes as terrified as when he thought he was going to a hospital.

There was a sharp silence as Sherlock stormed into his bedroom, only to return seconds later. He thrust something into Merlin's quaking hands, looking at the boy for the first time since he started his speech.

"I thought I told you long ago that nothing good ever comes from lying - or stealing." Sherlock hissed. "I show you no sympathy in your loss as the item that you were robbed of, was first taken, from _me_."

"You?" John's jaw dropped. "_He _stole from _you_? How is that even possible?"

"Oh, it would have been quite simple," Sherlock scowled, "considering we shared a bedroom."

John verbally and physically stumbled, started and staggered.

"You - _what_?" John glanced back and forth between the two, until his gaze landed on the item still sitting in the palm of Merlin's hand.

A joker.

"Well, John, your first meeting of Mycroft was certainly atypical of how one normally goes about being introduced to one's flatmate's family members. It stands that you should meet my other brother in such a similarly unique fashion."

John was worried for a moment that he had actually quite literally fallen to the floor. But that had just been his brain tumbling on its side.

"Your _what_?" John snapped the "t" in his teeth.

"John, I'd like you to meet my brother. My younger, _dead, _brother."


	9. Twice Dead

**TITLE: The Other One **

**CHAPTER/TITLE:** Chapter Nine/ Twice Dead

**RATING:** T (violence/language)

**A/N: **

_Review please?_

**Chapter Nine: Twice Dead**

_"John, I'd like you to meet my brother. My younger, dead, brother."_

"Your _what_?" John parroted himself.

"Do try and keep up, John," Sherlock sighed. "And stop repeating yourself. Your hearing is perfectly fine and it makes you sound even less intelligent than you already are."

John snapped his mouth shut and then dared to speak after a moment of stunned silence.

"Are you really his brother?" John direction the question carefully at Merlin.

Merlin was silent for a long second before shifting himself forward.

"I - I should - leave."

Merlin fumbled to his feet, weakling grasping for his clothes and clumsily climbing into his pants.

"No," John shook his head. "You can't leave. You're still ill."

"Thank you," Merlin offered John a sincere nod, "for everything. I'm sorry."

Merlin made to leave again, this time Sherlock stepping in his way.

"You're apologizing to _him_?" The detective snarled, all claims of a sociopath without emotions flying out the window.

"I - I can't apologize to you," Merlin mumbled, his eyes glued to the floor.

"And why not?" Sherlock demanded dangerously.

"Because there is _nothing _I can say to make it right," Merlin was panting now. "Nothing!"

"So you're just going to leave, _again, _because you are too unintelligent to speak properly?" Sherlock scoffed. "Too scared?"

"I shouldn't have come back," Merlin whispered.

"You should have made up your mind _before _you came to London," Sherlock stabbed.

Merlin's hands moved to cradle his head and John stepped into the crossfire.

"Alright, Sherlock. That's enough."

"Stay out of this, John," Sherlock ground out.

"He's sick!" John protested as Merlin began to shake. "He has a concussion and hypothermia -"

"Well, that's certainly an improvement from being dead - twice." Sherlock seethed.

"You can do this later!" John warned.

"There is no later," Sherlock hollered. "He will leave. Again!"

"I _had _to," Merlin grunted between gasps. "Besides, I didn't _leave_. I was _sent _away."

"You could have made contact," Sherlock huffed.

"No, I couldn't," Merlin grit his teeth, leaning on John now to keep himself upright.

"You were dead!"

"So were you!"

The sudden scream silenced Sherlock and sent Merlin crumbling to the ground. John hefted the young man carefully up and onto the couch, forcing Merlin to remain there as the doctor examined him and checked his vitals. All three remained wordless as John finished his assessment of his patient. It wasn't until he motioned for Merlin to lean forward so that he could listen to his lungs did anyone speak.

"No," Meriln's protest was soft but sharp.

"Merlin, I have to -"

"No," Merlin repeated, this time panic ebbing his tone.

The younger boy slid farther back, pressing himself against the couch. He was scrambling to slip his shirt over his head when Sherlock swooped forward and spun his younger brother around, pinning him so that his stomach was against the couch, his back screaming for all to see. And Merlin was screaming too. Actually, properly, horribly, screaming. He was shrieking and shivering as though he was back in the throngs of the nightmare. Sherlock released Merlin and snapped his hand back so fast that John almost missed it. Merlin's back was still facing them, the aged and appalling scars glaring at them, as his shoulders shook. These markings made those on his chest seem almost trivial in allowed the boy to cry and neither doctor nor detective spoke until Merlin finally stiffened under their stares and hastily brought the blanket up and around his shoulders, shielding his back, as if hiding the wounds would erase them from their minds.

"You were dead," Merlin started softly, ignoring the questions he could feel crying out from the other two's brains.

"I saw it on the telly," Merlin swallowed, still not turning towards them. "All the lies. How you were a fake. How you lied. You were always too clever to have to lie to be smart, unless you wanted to for fun, or needed to. Like - like when you lied to take me home from school when that boy gave me a bloody nose." Merlin almost smiled at the memory. Almost. "And then they said you killed yourself. I thought - I - I thought you were dead. All this time, I survived. I fought and survived - for you. I stayed alive - for you. I couldn't - I wasn't supposed to see you at first, and then I just - I couldn't. I couldn't let you see - let you know. But I thought that if I stayed alive, you'd know. You'd feel it. I didn't know you thought I was - dead. And then - then _you _were."

Merlin was shaking something fierce. Whether it was from emotions or cold, John didn't ask. The doctor pinched the bridge of his nose and turned to his friend.

"Sherlock, go get Mrs. Hudson -"

"Why? And I can simply text her from -"

"No," John's voice suddenly carried the weight of the title of Captain. "Go downstairs. Have Mrs. Hudson bring up some soup. And _stay with her _until she does."

"But -"

"Sherlock," John snapped. "I don't want you back up here until I see Mrs. Hudson in that doorway. I need time alone to finish examining my patient and you need time to calm down before you continue this conversation. Do it. Now."

There was something in John's tone that had even Sherlock following the orders, though reluctantly and begrudgingly.

"Thanks," Merlin mumbled meekly.

"Don't thank me yet," John shook his head and sighed. "This is Sherlock. Things are definitely going to get a lot messier, and louder."


	10. Disappearing Act

**TITLE: The Other One **

**CHAPTER/TITLE:** Chapter Ten/ Disappearing Act

**RATING:** T (violence/language)

**A/N: **Nothing like a little snippet of BAMF John to make a girl smile while writing.

_Review please?_

**Chapter Ten: Disappearing Act**

John and Sherlock exchanged glances as they both watched Merlin nearly drown himself in the soup and tea. The boy barely came up for air as he polished off the bowl, draining it dry. He seemed to stare almost longingly at the empty contents.

"Would you like some more, dear?" Mrs. Hudson hovered over Merlin expectantly.

"Oh, no," Merlin shook his head as she took his bowl. "I couldn't."

"Nonsense," the older woman waved her hand.

"Really, I'm full," Merlin insisted kindly. "It was quite good. Best I've had. Thank you."

Mrs. Hudson was far too flattered to notice the lie that Sherlock swiftly caught.

"Oh, well, you are very welcome," the woman beamed. "How I wish _others _appreciated my cooking like you do," she flashed a fiery but friendly glare at Sherlock. _That_, he didn't notice.

"Thank you, Mrs. Hudson," John tipped his head at their landlady as she made her leave.

"Lying, again," Sherlock pierced Merlin with his eyes once the woman was down the stairs. "Becoming habit for you."

Merlin glanced away sheepishly.

"When was the last time you've eaten?" Sherlock fired off the question without waiting for a response. "Nevermind. Don't answer that. Not that you would. Let's see, yes. Scrap of bread, what - two days ago? Nothing before that for at least four days, possibly more. What would you say, _doctor_?"

John didn't answer. He didn't need Sherlock's power to somehow see the breadcrumb on Merlin's jacket when they first met him or under his fingernails - or however he always figured those things out - to know the truth. Merlin's appearance told enough of a story, from the dark and sunken caverns underneath his eyes to the skin stretched tightly over his ribcage. Instead of adding fuel to Sherlock's fire, the medical man turned a concerned gaze to his patient.

"Merlin?" He prompted.

"Winter's always hard," Melrin shrugged.

"Oh, that may be true," Sherlock shook his head, "but with your talents, I bet you win quite a good amount of money from those card games of yours, unless they all end with you being beaten and left for dead. Then there's your magic tricks. That's got to get you something from the bleeding hearts of the world that pass you by and stop to watch your little show. You obviously don't spend money on clothes and you aren't supporting a drug habit, nor do you have a taste for alcohol. So, what is it then?" Sherlock paused and then clapped his hands together. "Ah! Yes! Of course. That good old moral compass. John's got one too. Annoying, really. So, who'd you give it to? Old lady? Small child? Please tell me you were at least intelligent enough not to waste your earnings by handing them over to an addict."

"Two kids," Merlin sighed after a measured moment. "Brother 'n sister. Seven and eight. Runaways."

"You should've gone to the police," John shook his head. "That's too young to be on the streets."

"Police don't help," Merlin shot a significant look at his brother. "Just send you away. Those kids are better off being on the streets, together, than being torn apart and shuffled and herded like cattle, only to be -"

Merlin suddenly snapped his mouth shut, as if only then realizing what he had been saying, or about to say.

"To be what?" John pressed patiently, knowing without Sherlock's genius brain that Merlin had been talking about far more than the two children.

"It's nothing," Merlin mumbled.

"And another lie," Sherlock sniffed. "Father would wash out your mouth."

"He wasn't my father!"

John wasn't sure which was more surprising, the words - or the right hook that accompanied them and landed against Sherlock's jaw.

It wasn't until the doctor went to help his flatmate back to his feet that John saw Sherlock was, for once, just as shocked as he was.

It was a rare expression to color the great detective's face and John almost didn't recognize it. Before he could blink, though, it was gone, replaced by a veil of indifference.

"Of course," Sherlock nodded, something dark flashing in the depths of his eyes. "That makes perfect sense. That certainly explains the -"

"Stop," Merlin was suddenly pleading. "Please."

"How could you not tell me?" Sherlock advanced on his younger brother, a mixture of betrayal, anger - and was that pain? - in his voice.

"How could you not figure it out?" Merlin swallowed a sob in between a scream. "You always knew everything! I looked up to you! I trusted you! I thought you - that one day you'd see. But it wasn't you."

"Mycroft," Sherlock spat the word like bad meat in his mouth.

Merlin merely nodded, a subtle flinch at the name.

"Mycroft found out," Sherlock continued, "and made you disappear."

"I'd hardly say _disappear_," a voice rolled from the entryway and both younger Holmes brothers stiffened.

"I told you not to let me see you," Sherlock warned.

"Then close your eyes," Mycroft retorted apathetically. "I couldn't simply allow this to go on without intervening, now could I?"

"Intervening?" Sherlock hissed, staring at Mycroft through slits for eyes. "You've already _intervened _quite enough, don't you think, dear_ brother_?"

"I've only ever done what has been best for the both of you," the British government official shook his head.

"And who made you God?" Sherlock snapped.

"Well, someone had to take control in this family after -"

"I suggest you stop speaking before the next body I'm standing over is yours," Sherlock threatened.

"Okay," John cleared his throat, "let's everybody calm down, shall we?"

"I was the eldest," Mycroft plowed forward, giving no recognition of even hearing John. "It was my responsibility. My duty."

"_Duty_," Sherlock slapped the word against his tongue.

"Yes, duty," Mycroft repeated, as if to a child. "That is what family is, Sherlock. Don't be getting caught up in sentiment now."

"I was '_caught up_' in sentiment when I was told my brother was dead!" Sherlock screamed.

"But you moved on," Mycroft challenged.

"What?" Sherlock snapped back.

"I'm sorry," John cut in hesitantly, "I know this is really none of my business, but could someone please explain what the _hell _is going on?"


End file.
